She Without Sin

by J. P. Barry

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Jillian asked, eyes scanning everything in sight.

  “That’s the address Randy gave me,” I replied, double checking the paper I’d written the information down on verses the GPS coordinates.

  “This can’t be right.”

  Firing off a quick text to my brother, my brain went into overdrive surveying the area for anything out of the ordinary, such as traps or cameras. Getting out of the car and investigating on foot felt too dangerous. Waiting for Randy to confirm was the safer option. The phone beeped seconds later. This was, in fact, the correct location.

  “Stick to me like glue, Jill. This place is what horror movies are born from. Keep your eyes open, mind sharp, and look alive,” I warned.

  Reaching into the center console, I found my trusty old pocket knife. Clutching it tightly, I made my way out of the vehicle, Jillian close behind. Cautiously approaching the house, the wooden floor boards on the porch creaked under our combined weight. To say the experience proved unnerving would’ve been a gross understatement. At any given second this rickety area could give out. Tiptoeing to the closest window, I peered in. Jillian followed suit. No one lived here. There was nothing but random discarded broken furniture. Thick layers of dust, cobwebs, and grime clung to every surface. However, to the left of the front door was a mailbox which clearly read, ‘LESSOR, W.’ indicating this was his home, thusly proving Randy’s intel correct.

  Slowly backing away from the house, we circled the perimeter only to find nothing but abandoned crap. Visually cueing Jillian it was time to go, I got back in the car. Fingers poised to lock the doors immediately after Jillian got in, because my gut screamed to get the hell out of here. There was nothing of any help–not even a single, tiny breadcrumb of information to be had. Jillian started heading back to the car, but stopped, abruptly. Leaning down, something caught her attention. What? No idea, but she sprinted to the car, found the tissue box on the backseat, went back to the area in question, and scooped something up. Like a trained spy, she scouted the entire space around the house again, but this time snapping pictures with her cell. Once satisfied, she joined me in the safety of the vehicle.

  “Let’s go,” she instructed.

  “What did you find?” I questioned, pulling back onto the road.

  “Obviously, the address raises suspicions. This house isn’t a primary, permanent residency, but that’s not to say someone hasn’t lived here full-time at some point. Based on size, décor, location, I’d guess it’s more of a summer/vacation home—a long forgotten one. There’s no basement or storm cellar. It’s a one-room shack. W. Lessor probably uses it to hide their true location, or as storage for miscellaneous odds and ends. All that tells me is he or she is concealing a secret. Why use this shack and not a PO Box like normal people do when they don’t want anyone knowing their mailing address? What I found was somewhat fresh foot prints measuring roughly eleven inches, and wide in width. The sole of the shoe in question resembled that of a boot with a fairly distinct S-shaped markings on the bottom. Also, near the marks were newer tire tracks which may or not be from a van like the one we saw on the video, and these,” she said, opening the tissue. Inside were a half dozen nails.

  “Where are you going with this, Jill?” Damn this girl was good. She’d always be an investigative reporter no matter how many award-winning shows she hosted. This was her passion. It read clearly across her face. The lifelessness which hung from every inch of skin, was replaced with a vibrant, hopeful glow.

  “The boot prints, tire tracks, and nails are all new, freshly placed. Someone has been here, recently–within the past week. We had a downpour three days ago. Look around. There’s practically no grass, only dirt. When dirt gets wet, it makes mud. When someone steps in mud it leaves an imprint–a cast of sorts until another rain event occurs when it gets washed away. I’m sure the cops or FBI investigated this place weeks ago, but I’m also sure if W. Lessor has a brain in his or her head, they’ve steered clear, aware law enforcement might come snooping around. When the police canvassed the place initially, none of these clues would’ve been present.” She paused, attempting to read my expression.

  “The boot size I came up with by comparing it against mine. I’m a size nine. The print was two inches longer and practically triple the width of my sneaker. The tire marks, I’m not familiar with cars and trucks, but I did take pictures of everything. I’ll have to look stuff up when I get home. As for the nails, they’re not rusty–if no one has been out here in a while, then they’d be covered in reddish brown crud. These are shiny, newish, and have ‘J&S’ stamped on the head. It’s a solid place to start. After I match the shoe tread and figure out where these nails came from, I may have a lead. These are valuable clues. Granted, I would’ve loved to have found Nick stashed somewhere here safe and healthy, this is progress too. I realize I’m not a cop and have never investigated an abduction, but I’m also not an idiot. What we found today is a firm start.”

  With a nod, I pressed the accelerator a bit harder. She was right. These were fantastic signs. Her rational thought process made sense. Law enforcement may not have been privy to this new insight. Chances were, they did their initial investigation, found squat, and put a pin in it while checking out other tips. Wouldn’t be the first time the police missed something, or had their attention drawn elsewhere. Besides, it couldn’t hurt checking Jillian’s new finds out safely behind a computer screen at her house. Much more rational and legal than snooping around a potential whack job’s abandoned home.

  “Have you given any thought to what Wilder said about those two women? What were their names? Do you remember?” I asked, the thought randomly popping into my head. Truthfully, I’d forgotten about them. Central focus had been on keeping Jillian out of jail, not Nick’s extra marital bedroom conquests.

  “No. I assume they’re special friends of Nick’s since the police or Wilder haven’t mentioned them again. They’ve probably already looked into the pair,” she replied, eyes looking straight ahead, body turning rigid again.

  “They’re possible clues too, Jill. Now’s not the time to get butt hurt over speculation. When we get back to the house and Lyla leaves, let’s order some takeout, and dig through what we found today. I’m going to call Kendra now to tell her I’ll be late. Sound good?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Liam.”

  “Anytime, Jill. What are producer fathers for?” I chuckled.

  “Damned if I know.” For the first time in weeks, she laughed. Hopefully the sentiment would sustain for longer than a few moments. After everything Jillian had endured, she deserved it. However, despite my gut suggesting we were onto something huge, my brain spun another narrative. A story which landed my ass squarely in danger.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nick

  Increments of time in this shit-hole prison dragged. I’d lost track of how long I’d been here. All I knew for sure was I had to keep going. Giving up wasn’t an option. What the future held? No idea. There wasn’t a damn thing to escape and go home to. Jillian was gone. A part of my drive, my will to carry on, to fight like hell to get out of here crumbled. Some days I felt staying in place, conforming to Warren’s psychotic ways was the best option. Other days, I could’ve reached across the dinner table, strangling him in cold blood, relishing watching the life slip from his pathetic body. He’d struggle at first. Arms wildly making feeble attempts to remove my hands from his neck, but then he’d calm. Eyes would widen. Windpipe desperately gasping for that last ounce of oxygen. Then, nothing. Silence. Freedom. Today was one of those bad moments where I danced on that fine line between sanity and pure insanity.

  Warren and Noah left early in the morning to head into town to pick up supplies and food. Brother Isaac had been under the weather. According to Noah, he required an antibiotic. My suspicions he was a medical professional were confirmed when Warren shared Noah was a Licensed Nurse Practitioner. Sickness of any kind wasn’t an issue in this house, my guess is
because no one went anywhere aside from the cousins, but from time to time all humans caught a random case of the sniffles. Before taking off, Warren requested I keep an eye on things and checkup on Isaac in his absence, to which I agreed. There wasn’t much to do. The ‘flock’ had their daily routine, and didn’t require anyone babysitting them. Isaac was a grown man who surely suffered colds over the course of his life at one point or another. He’d be fine. The rest were well versed in staying inside, never speaking to anyone outside the house, and not opening the front or back door. Only Warren could do that. However, none of this was ever an issue because no one had swung by for a visit since I arrived.

  I stood in the kitchen cleaning the breakfast dishes, staring out the back window. With the exception of a few busying themselves in the den, most were in the yard tending to various chores. They’d be out there for a few hours, probably breaking for lunch later than normal. The weather shifted from warm to downright frigid. Whatever was in the ground needed to be pulled, and the rest of the gardening had to wrap up as soon as possible. Initially, my day looked like fabricating data from sessions for Warren, but with him gone, a thought struck. He and Noah had internet access. If I convinced everyone to go outside, I’d accidently lock the back and basement doors, and sneak up to one of their rooms, hop online, and send an SOS message to my grandfather. Solid plan, right?

  “Sisters? Brothers?” I called.

  “In here,” Brother Richard called.

  Going into the front sitting room, I found four of them folding wash.

  “Listen, the weather is turning brutally cold. There’s a lot of work to be done outside. Wouldn’t it be a great surprise for Brother Warren if when he got home all of the yard work was complete? If there’s extra time, I thought we could take it even further and start jarring the remaining produce. I’ll keep an ear out for Brother Isaac, and tend to his needs,” I said, leaning against the wall, smiling brightly at these severely damaged souls. The more I got to know them in session, the more my heart wept. The pain, abuse, neglect they’d all come from before here, unspeakable. Slowly, I gained their trust. Our meetings went smooth. Little by little without their knowledge, I was helping them along the healing path. One day in the near future they’d be strong enough to realize how wrong this setup was. When that happened, I’d be ready to lead them to freedom. After that, I’d assist them in finding the help they’d require to function in the real world.

  “What a wonderful idea,” Nicole exclaimed. Her story was by far the worst to date. Not only was she abused physically and mentally by her parents growing up, but her husband had done the same.

  The others nodded in agreement.

  “Brother Warren asked I tend to a few things around the house, then I’ll meet everyone outside. Shouldn’t be any more than an hour or so. We can worry about the wash later,” I explained.

  Like lambs to the slaughter they rose, exiting the house. No questions. No replies. Nothing. I couldn’t help but feel bad for these people. Not wanting to waste any time, I scaled the stairs two by two to Warren’s room. The damn door, locked. Picking it, beyond my skill set. That was more of a Jillian thing–my Nancy Drew. Heading three doors down to Noah’s, his knob clicked open.

  The space, sparse, and rather tidy. He had few personal items. The walls were bare, free from art or family photographs. On the oak desk was a small picture of a young girl. Had I not been in such a rush, I’d have studied the image more. From the quick glance, she had long, dark ashen, beachy waves, with sparkling eyes, and smooth rosy skin. She couldn’t have been any more than twenty-five. However, the thought of this pretty girl standing next to him didn’t match. His large face, empty, hollow eyes, with a mess of dark brown out of control curls when it grew too long didn’t mesh with the beauty in the snapshot. To sum it up best, she was a fine wine one drank from an expensive crystal glass. He was a cheap can of beer you’d drink from a brown paper bag behind a convenience store.

  Luck appeared to be on my side when I moved the mouse to the desktop around a bit. The screen flashed on; icons popped up. No password required. Clicking on the first internet app spotted, images loaded. Feverishly, I typed ‘Jillian Winters.’ Millions of hits came up, but none of them mentioned her passing.

  Odd.

  Hitting the ‘news’ tab, the first article that appeared was about how she’d been hiding out in our house since the press conference she held two weeks after my disappearance. The police and FBI were involved, investigating all possible angles. A little farther down was a picture the paparazzi took stamped two days ago of a grainy Jillian inside the kitchen.

  “She’s not dead,” I gasped. That sick bastard lied. He made up a story to get me to stop resisting life on his crazy ass compound.

  Pressing the control H key combination to delete my search, it revealed Noah had been investigating Jillian himself, and quite frequently. Looking further down the list I caught a glimpse of my name, but the sound of feet against the hardwood floors climbing the stairs sent my fingers into overdrive. Erasing my research, I bolted from the room to find Sarah reaching the top step.

  “What are you doing up here?” she asked.

  “I heard dripping water when I passed the stairs. It wasn’t coming from the kitchen or first floor bathroom. I thought it might be from an upstairs pipe. It was. Either Brother Warren or Brother Noah must not have turned the sink all the way off in their bathroom before they left,” I lied.

  “Really? I’ve been by the steps a bunch of times this morning. Didn’t hear anything,” she challenged.

  “Why else would I be up here then?”

  “Don’t know,” she answered. Behind brown eyes rested too much suspicion. I couldn’t run the risk of her telling Warren about this. The last time Sarah and I had a run in, he concocted a story about Jillian dying. If I caused a stir again in his delicate little ecosystem, he might actually go through with harming my wife, and that wasn’t about to happen.

  Taking a calculated risk, I took her by the waist, pressed her body against the wall, and kissed her. She’d either accept the gesture, or would scream. Thankfully, after a stunned pause, her lips moved, arms coiling around my neck, fingernails gently scratching against my scalp.

  “I shouldn’t have done that. It was disrespectful,” I said, pulling away in an attempt to flush out the situation going on inside her head.

  “Shut up,” she answered, pulling my body against hers.

  Ready to quickly figure out a way to end what I started before it got out of control, I heard the front door lock click open. It had to be Warren and Noah home early from their errands.

  Shit!

  Yanking Sarah’s hips into mine, I crushed my lips on hers. She met the action without objection. My brain went into shutdown because if I allowed myself to think too much over what was happening, what I was doing, I’d become consumed with guilt, regret, and remorse. This was cheating, and no matter how it was justified, it would never be right. I swore not only to Jillian, but to myself after Kelly, I’d never relive the same mistake again. Ever.

  Stop! You have no other choice right now. You didn’t elect to do this like you did with Kelly. You’re being forced into this awful act, which, might I add, is what’s going to keep you and Jillian alive.

  Keeping Sarah’s body against mine was easy. She wasn’t going anywhere. Her fantasies had finally become a reality. While Sarah enjoyed the moment, my mind schemed, plotted. I didn’t want this to appear to be an act of lust, but rather one of romantic interest. When Warren or Noah discovered us, I didn’t need a lecture on how lust was a sin. Love on the other hand, they couldn’t say a damn thing about. Sliding one arm firmly around her waist, my left hand softly caressed the side of her face. I kept the tempo of movement slow and deep, never allowing our bodies to part. Initially, she went with the flow, but after a moment she became sexually aggressive, clawing at me like a lion in heat, yanking at the waist of my slacks.

  “Slow down, Sarah. I’m not like that,”
I whispered, retreating, slightly, allowing warm breath to tease her lips.

  “Nick,” she moaned, before slamming lips back on mine. Her referring to me as ‘Nick,’ not Brother Nicholas, was a good, strong sign. It meant she felt vulnerable, comfortable around me, which worked to my advantage in every conceivable way.

  “Ah hem,” Warren coughed, alerting his presence.

  Swiftly pivoting, I turned to block Sarah–a sneaky way to allow her to believe I was protecting her from the sudden startle.

  “Brother Warren,” I said, still retaining the position.

  “I’m not interrupting anything? Am I? Is there something we need to discuss here?” he questioned. Though his body language remained calm, something in his eyes appeared off. I couldn’t decipher exactly what.

  Before I could utter a single sound, Sarah pushed past Warren and bolted down the stairs. Less than a minute later, the sound of the basement door opening and slamming shut cut through the still air.

  “I have to go after her, Brother Warren. You can lecture me later on the dos and don’ts of this house, but presently I have to be there for Sister Sarah. She needs me. Sorry,” I replied, rapidly, hoping the distracted, rushed, choppy delivery of words revealed a concerned man.

  Upon entering the main space of the basement, something odd happened inside my core. Everything emotionally driven powered down. Perhaps this is what psychopaths experienced, I had no idea, because I’d never operated in a manner as such, but the situation appeared clearer than it had minutes ago. I could now go through with this farce free of conscience.

  “Sister Sarah?” I called, not seeing her, assuming she was in the bathroom.